


Digging for Your Dream

by gamerfic



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Krogan Children, Krogan Family Bonding Time, Krogans, Parenthood, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Thresher Maws, Tuchanka, Worldbuilding, child in jeopardy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gamerfic/pseuds/gamerfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things become beautiful precisely because they saved you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Digging for Your Dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irusu/gifts).



Bakara will never forget the way the crystal felt in her hand: its base rough and bumpy where she worked it free from the wall, its planed edges impossibly smooth, tapering to a sharp point that she used to dig her way to freedom. As she chipped away at the stone of her cave, she imagined her makeshift tool as flawlessly clear, gleaming, dazzlingly bright. After she emerged, shuddering and heaving with exertion, she held the crystal up to the distant, shrouded sun and saw she had been wrong. It was hazy and asymmetrical, with a dark blemish in its center. Bakara treasured it anyway. Some things become beautiful precisely because they saved you.

Tuchanka is much the same. Centuries of war and neglect have reduced the planet to ruins and irradiated rubble. Rebuilding it may take longer than destroying it did. It was a harsh, unforgiving place to begin with, and the Reapers' devastation made it more so. _It's no place to raise a family_ , the humans might say, but Wrex disagrees. As a hero of the Reaper wars, he could have demanded opulent, lavish accommodations anywhere in the galaxy. He chose a hastily renovated villa on Tuchanka instead. Bakara wasn't surprised. Wrex spent too long fighting for the survival of his species to sit back and watch others do the work without him.

What does surprise her, however, is how often he's around. For generations, male krogan have fertilized their females' eggs, then departed to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Many fathers never meet their offspring before the children's rite of passage, if at all. Bakara expected Wrex to do the same, even encouraged it by urging him to accept so many breeding requests. He has other children, of course, and visits them too, but more often than not it's Bakara's clutch he comes home to. Other war leaders scoff at his sentimentality - _Urdnot Wrex spent so much time with Commander Shepard, his mate's eggs hatched pink and helpless and wriggly, weak like human spawn_ \- but Bakara can't say she objects.

Wrex is here with the children now. All seventeen of them swarm around him, chattering excitedly, vying for his attention. They are nearly two years old and waist-high to their father already. In another year they'll be adolescents petitioning Clan Urdnot for recognition. Krogan mature quickly compared to most other species, and their offspring are effectively self-sufficient upon hatching; it's part of how they spread so rapidly in the time before the genophage. In those days, krogan mothers buried their fertilized eggs in the desert and walked away, secure in the knowledge that the strongest would survive without them. But Bakara's in no hurry to let her own children fend for themselves. Even with the war won, the galaxy is cruel enough to make her want to hold them close while she can. Maybe she, too, has let the humans rub off on her. Maybe it's a good thing.

"Okay, you bunch of pyjaks!" Wrex bellows, playfully swatting away the hatchlings clinging to his legs and waist. "Are you gonna spend all day annoying me, or are you gonna climb in the Mako so we can go have some fun?"

"Mako!" the children shout in near-unison. They scramble for the garage and pile into a battered old troop carrier - surplus from the war, not technically a Mako, though Wrex insists on calling it one. Bakara climbs into the driver's seat and starts the engine. The children vibrate with anticipation as they strap themselves into the two long benches in the back. Wrex swings up through the rear cargo gate and checks each child's harness before he sits down in the front passenger seat. Bakara puts the vehicle in gear, the stick shift moving sluggishly beneath her clawed hand. The so-called Mako lurches forward and rumbles out into the scarred, desolate landscape of Tuchanka.

Bakara's mind wanders as she drives through a long-dry gully. Ancient shamans claimed this arid canyon was once a lush river valley. There may have been some truth to their tales; all life on Tuchanka is as resilient as the krogan, and in the absence of ground fighting and orbital bombardment, shoots of pale green vegetation are already springing up amidst the rocks and dust. Despite her knowledge of history, it's difficult for her to imagine this place forested and fertile. Perhaps it will be easier for her children to picture.

South of the ravine is a small plateau surrounded by jagged rocks and scrubby bushes. She guides the Mako up its side and parks in its center, at a familiar spot affording a dramatic view of the surrounding desert and the distant mountains. The Mako has barely stopped moving when the children unbuckle themselves and leap out. The plateau is one of their favorite places to play. They disperse in all directions, scaling rock formations and playing Warlord on the Mountain, scratching in the dirt in search of insects and lizards, hunting for fossils and minerals near the cliffs. It's impossible to keep track of them all, but Bakara doesn't worry. The children know this place and its hazards well, and she trusts them not to get into any trouble they can't handle.

Wrex and Bakara sit together on the hood of the Mako and watch the children at play. "Think I'll take the hatchlings down to the spawning grounds today," says Wrex.

Bakara tries not to let her nervousness show. "Are you sure they're ready?"

"They're older than I was the first time I went there, and I turned out okay. Mostly." Wrex chuckles. "But if you don't want me to do it, I'll save it for another trip."

"No, you're right. They should learn our traditions. It's only...They're growing up so fast."

"I know what you mean."

When Bakara returns to the Mako to retrieve the lunches she packed, she also grabs her shotgun from beneath the driver's seat. The children don't notice the weapon, or the significant look she gives Wrex as she lays out the food. They're more interested in the picnic baskets brim-full of small roasted bird-like creatures wrapped in large glossy leaves. A contented hush falls over the plateau as they eat. Before long, though, one of the children says, "I'm full. Can I go play?" It's Shepard, of course, always as direct and impetuous as her namesake.

"Not yet," says Bakara, not wanting the others to abandon their food and then complain of hunger later. "Wait for your clutchmates to be done."

"Aww." Shepard huffs and crosses her arms. "But I'm _full_. And I'm _bored_."

"Well, what if I told a story while everyone finishes?"

"Yeah!" the children squeal, their mouths full of meat.

Bakara sits up straighter and adopts the lyrical, slightly detached tone that all shamans use to share the ancient legends. She feels Wrex's curious, attentive gaze settling upon her as she begins. "Long ago, in a time before time, the creatures of Tuchanka had a problem to solve. The planet offered them many gifts, but the creatures had to decide how to distribute them. So each species sent its wisest and strongest leader to a great competition. The pyjaks were there, and the varren, and the thresher maws, and even the krogan. The winner would be the first to choose their reward.

"When the leaders of all the species had gathered, the contest began. The leaders raced, and wrestled, and hunted, and faced each other in tests of cleverness and bravery. When the challenges were finished, the winner was clear. Kalros was the strongest of them all."

"Who?" asks Ameer.

"The mother of all thresher maws," says Mordin.

Bakara nods. "When Kalros saw the gifts, she said to herself, 'I am already strong, and healthy, and large, and powerful. What need have I of these things?' So she reached to the very bottom of the pile, to a gift the other leaders had overlooked. 'This one is mine,' she said. The other leaders thought Kalros was very foolish indeed as they claimed all the gifts she had rejected. They took wings and thick carapaces, sharp claws and venomous fangs, long life and tireless endurance. Even today, some say this is how we krogan gained our strong and healthy bodies, how we can recover from almost any illness or injury.

"Generations passed, and all the creatures of Tuchanka made use of their rewards. Yet as mighty as they were, their lives were still difficult. They fought for survival. They warred with each other. At long last, millennia later, they said to each other, 'Now we see that Kalros chose the most powerful gift of all.' Do you know why? Can you guess which gift Kalros chose?"

The children, silent and wide-eyed, shake their heads.

"All life on Tuchanka must struggle and suffer. Even the krogan. Even Kalros herself. The mother of the maws knew no gift she chose would change things for herself. Instead, she claimed strength and resilience for her offspring. This is why the spores of the thresher maw travel everywhere and withstand anything. Radiation and chemicals cannot destroy them. They take root in any climate. They survive even in the void of space. To this day, on almost every moon and planet in every corner of the galaxy, a thresher maw can be found, growing and thriving. And so we krogan revere and respect the thresher maw, and remember the lessons Kalros taught us. We must not forget that all we will do is done for the sake of those who will come after us."

The children roar politely at the story's conclusion. Some of their cries of appreciation sound tentative, and Bakara knows most of them don't understand. It doesn't matter; they don't need to, not yet. All they need to do is listen, to let the legends of their people settle in their bones, until each myth is as familiar and comfortable as the view from their bedroom windows. Later, when they're older, they will remember their mother's stories and know what she was trying to say.

As the stragglers are finishing lunch, Wrex grabs two metal crates out of the Mako and tosses them to the ground in the middle of the picnic. "We're doing something a little different today, hatchlings," he says. "But if we're gonna do it, you all need to listen to me and do what I say. Anybody stops listening, we turn around and go home. Got it?"

The children nod. "Good," Wrex says, and pries the lids off the crates. "Everybody take a gun. Try not to shoot each other too much, okay?"

Solemn-faced, each child selects a small pistol and nervously grips it. They're human-made and calibrated for human dangers, incapable of doing real damage to krogan or anything else on Tuchanka. The children will graduate to something more powerful once they've proven they can be trusted.

They toss the empty crates and the picnic leftovers back in the Mako, and Wrex leads the way down a steep, narrow trail that descends into the desert. Every other time the children have visited the plateau, Wrex's and Bakara's instructions have been clear: _stay where it's flat and high, don't try to climb down the sides, if I see anybody trying it we're all leaving._ Such sudden, deliberate flouting of previously sacrosanct rules does not go unnoticed. "Where are you taking us?" asks Shepard excitedly.

"Wait and see," Bakara says from the back of the group. "Your father will explain."

"It's up ahead," says Wrex as the trail levels out behind a low ridge of rocks that divide the base of the plateau from a vast expanse of grey sand. "Remember your mother's story, about thresher maws and how they can live anywhere? Well, Tuchanka is special. Most moons and planets can support one, maybe two maws, but Tuchanka's _crawling_ with them. Every year, some of them leave spores right here." He gesture at the sandy basin in front of them. "There's probably a baby maw just under the surface right now."

The children look astonished. "Isn't it dangerous to be so close?" asks Mordin.

"Of course it is!" Wrex says cheerfully. "And in a year or so, when you're ready to join a clan, you'll even get to fight a full-grown thresher maw to prove you're worthy!"

A murmur of anticipation mingled with dread runs through the group. "I can't!" Mordin wails. "It'll eat me!"

"It might right now, sure. But I'm gonna teach you so it won't." Wrex grins savagely. He vaults over the rocks, dashes out onto the sand, and stomps rhythmically on the soft ground.

"Daddy, you'll attract its attention!" Oga cries in alarm.

"Exactly! Any of you feel that?" The children shake their heads. "I can. It's like a rumble on the soles of my feet. So I know the maw's swimming up towards us. It should be breaking through the surface right...about…"

The noise of a thresher maw's head bursting from the ground drowns out the end of Wrex's sentence. Only two meters of its massive body protrude from its burrow, and Wrex dives and rolls easily out of its range. The maw is clearly a juvenile, scrawny and thin-skinned, but Bakara's hand still goes involuntarily to the stock of her shotgun as it thrashes and flails. "What are you waiting for?" Wrex shouts to the children. "Shoot it!"

The children comply, some more enthusiastically than others. Most of their shots strike nowhere near the thresher maw (and some, Bakara notices, end up alarmingly close to Wrex), but even those that hit can't really damage the creature. Nevertheless, the hail of gunfire convinces it to make a temporary retreat. "I got it!" Shepard shrieks gleefully as the thresher maw withdraws underground.

"Nice work," Wrex says with a low chuckle. He gestures to the sandy ground around him. "All of you, join me in the sand." The children hesitate. "Come on, don't be afraid. You're doing great."

Emboldened, the children scurry over the rocks and cluster around their father. "Did we kill it?" asks Shepard.

"Not even close. _Now_ do you feel the vibrations in the ground?" The children consider the sensations from below, then nod. "That's the maw, moving through the tunnels it digs. The shaking will get stronger the closer it gets to the surface."

"I feel it," Mordin whispers with alarm.

"Good! Keep listening. When you hear sand shifting, get ready to jump out of the way."

"And then we shoot it?" asks Shepard.

"If you want, and you've got a clear line of fire, sure. But to join a clan, you won't have to kill a maw, just survive against it. So focus on your dodging." Wrex freezes. The children do, too. "See what I mean about the shaking? Get ready. Here it comes!"

The thresher maw emerges from a new spot this time, terrifyingly close to Wrex and the children. Most of them scatter promptly and evade it easily; the maw can't pursue them all at once, and Wrex is jumping up and down and waving his arms to draw its focus. Some of the children feel confident enough to squeeze off a few shots in its direction. Bakara ducks briefly behind a boulder as their errant bullets spatter in the dirt in front of her. Now the children's cries of fear are mixed with exhilaration at the discovery of their own power, at the unimaginable feats they can suddenly and unexpectedly achieve.

Except for Mordin. The thresher maw surfaces less than a meter from him, its massive body plunging him into shadow as it looms above him. He looks up at it and freezes, Wrex's instructions forgotten. The maw strikes. Its toothy mouth closes around the top of Mordin's head and lifts him up into the air.

Both of Bakara's hearts skip a beat. She's up and over the rocks before she can even formulate a plan, sprinting across the sand toward Mordin and the maw. The other children are screaming in terror, but she can't think about them right now. _If that thing drags him underground…_

Wrex understands the danger, too. He leaps, explosively, higher than Bakara has ever seen him jump, and wraps his arms and legs around the thresher maw's armored body. With all his strength he pulls it downward, then violently headbutts it in the throat. It spasms, and Mordin tumbles free of its jaws.

Bakara covers the distance to Mordin more quickly than she would have believed possible. She catches him just before he hits the ground, his full weight landing heavily in her outstretched arms. He's kicking and whimpering in her grasp and Bakara thinks, _oh, good, he's alive._ The maw is turning toward them with its mouth open. Their work isn't done. She shifts Mordin's weight onto her left hip and readies her shotgun with her free hand. "Cover your ears, little egg."

Bakara and Wrex know exactly what they have to do. Wrex lets go of the thresher maw and drops in front of it. Biotic energy gathers around his fists. With a primal roar he thrusts his arms forward and immobilizes the creature in the center of a swirling cloud of blue. When the biotic field takes hold, Bakara is there, pressing the barrel of her shotgun against the thresher maw's motionless body. She fires, and again, and again. Then Wrex joins in, until they're both out of bullets and the thresher maw has been reduced to a limp carcass slowly sinking beneath the sand.

Rendered speechless, the children follow their parents to solid ground. When Bakara is certain they're all safe, she sits down hard, gathers Mordin up into her lap, and examines him. The thresher maw's teeth have left a ring of shallow puncture wounds around his head and face. They're clotting and scabbing over already, and Mordin seems more confused than in pain. Bakara exhales heavily in relief. _It could have been so much worse._ Nevertheless, she looks to Ameer, the fastest of the children, and says, "Run up to the Mako and bring me some medi-gel." Ameer nods and scurries away.

Mordin winces as he prods at one of the wounds on his forehead. His fingers come away bloody. He glares at Bakara. "I _told_ you it was going to eat me!"

"Doesn't look like it did," says Wrex, crouching beside Mordin. "There's plenty of you left."

"It _bit_ me in the _face!"_

"Damn right it did! And you lived to tell the story, just like a real krogan." Wrex grins and points to the scars bisecting his own face. "You see these? I got them from a pack of varren when I was about your age. Medi-gel should do the trick to clear those little scratches up, but if it doesn't, well, then you and me will match. Neat, huh?"

"Neat," says Mordin with an experimental smile.

After Ameer returns with the medi-gel and Bakara cleans and dresses Mordin's injuries, Wrex says, "Enough excitement for one day. Let's head for home." The children, still trying to make sense of everything, don't object.

Back in the Mako, driving through the canyons to the house, Bakara's hands shake as they clutch the wheel. _If the thresher maw had been faster, or if Wrex hadn't been so close to it when it grabbed Mordin, or if the shotgun had jammed_...She tries not to think about it. She glances at Wrex in the seat beside her and feels a momentary flash of irritation. _None of this would have happened if he hadn't insisted they were ready to fight their first thresher maw._ She acknowledges the feeling, then lets it go. Does she really want her children to be hatchlings forever, never growing up, never becoming warriors, never using their gifts to restore the krogan?

Most of the children are already half-asleep in their seats by the time they get home, and they don't resist when their parents usher them toward an early bedtime. Bakara spends a little extra time with Mordin after Wrex has tucked the others in, giving him a mild painkiller when he asks for it, singing a favorite song to him in her low, scratchy voice. When she's halfway to the door, thinking he's asleep, she hears him whisper, "Mama, I'm sorry I didn't get out of the way of the thresher maw fast enough."

She turns back and kneels next to the bed. "You don't need to apologize, little egg."

"I don't want you and Daddy to be disappointed in me."

"We could never be. Get some sleep, dearest." Bakara rests a heavy, comforting hand on Mordin's back and soon feels his body go limp, hears his breathing become slow and even. She listens to the children's soft snores reverberating through the warm cavernous bedroom and marvels for a moment at the simple fact of their existence. Through the pain and indignity of Maelon's experiments, through her grief as her sisters died around her, through the fear and uncertainty of the war, she clung so desperately to the dream of them that now she can scarcely believe they are real. She wonders how many other beings across the galaxy are doing the same thing she's doing right now, sitting silently in the dark at their children's bedsides, dazed to discover there might be a future after all.

She tiptoes past the children's tiny sprawled-out forms and creeps down the stairs to the villa's main level. She finds Wrex standing in the kitchen, finishing off some leftover picnic food. His gaze flickers toward her, then returns to the vibrant sunset beyond the open window. "You must be pretty pissed off at me right now," he says.

"I was for a while," Bakara admits. "Not so much anymore."

He turns to stare at her with incredulity filling his face. "No shit?"

"You gave me every chance to object, and I didn't. It's on me, too. Everybody lived. What can you do, except hope we all learned something today?"

Wrex chuckles, shakes his head, looks away again. "I have no idea what I'm doing with these kids," he says quietly.

"And you think I do?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. All I know is I want to be less of an asshole than Jarrod was to me."

"I'd say you're succeeding so far."

She moves to stand beside him and he covers her hand with his. They lean on each other for some time, watching the fading sun, until the pressure of the secret she's been guarding for days now finally becomes too much to bear. "Wrex? There's something I need to show you."

Bakara leads Wrex down to the lowest level of the villa, where it's always warm and humid thanks to the geothermal energy that heats and powers the house. Behind a nondescript door is a room with a low ceiling and a dirt floor. She hears his breath catch in his throat when he sees what's inside: two dozen eggs, half-buried in the sand, each one a tiny universe of promise and potential. "More?" he asks hoarsely as his eyes well with fierce pride, and she nods.

He grips her shoulders and presses his forehead against hers in a gesture of trust and deep affection. Bakara closes her eyes and thinks of the week before, when she woke in the night knowing her time had come to creep alone into the cellar and lay her eggs in their incubator. As she buried each one in the sand, she envisioned each embryo floating safe inside its protective shell, waiting to hatch into an uncertain future. Now, in Wrex's arms, she imagines pressing a tiny crystal shard into each child's growing hand, telling them, _In the darkest hour, there is always a way out. Take this, little egg, and keep it always. Use it to dig your way out, to your father, to me. We can't break through the shell for you. We can only try to make the light brighter to help you find the right path. Hurry toward it. We're here, and we're ready. We can't wait to find out what you'll become._


End file.
